Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 102: First Phase

Orion rolled his shoulders, still adjusting to the new flood of sensory input. Every breath carried layers of information.

Varun leaned back, arms crossed, exuding his usual mix of indifference and amusement. "The Academy changed the admissions this year," he said. "Open to anyone in the human domain with potential. That means—"

"More competition," Orion murmured, flexing his fingers as he reoriented himself to the heightened awareness coursing through his body.

Varun grinned. "Seventeen continents of candidates. Millions trying to get in. But only the top seven percent will make it to the second trial." He let that number settle before adding, "The first trial is a Selection War. A twelve-hour bloodbath where half of them will be eliminated."

Orion exhaled slowly. Twelve hours. A battlefield filled with desperate, highly trained candidates, all clawing for a spot at the top.

Varun looked at Orion to gauge his expression. "It's a battlefield simulation," he continued. "You drop in, armed with a single melee weapon chosen from a pre-selected arsenal."

Orion frowned. "Pre-selected?"

Varun shrugged. "The Academy wants fairness, I guess." His voice carried a hint of amusement. "The objective is to reach the designated zone before the countdown ends. Eliminations increase point accumulation. If you're in the bottom 50% when time runs out or you haven't reached the designated point, you're out."

Orion processed that. It wasn't just a matter of lasting the twelve hours—it was about actively taking out competitors. Staying passive wouldn't be an option.

"So, it's not just about survival," he said.

Varun smirked. "If you don't fight, you won't make it."

Orion nodded. That meant balancing aggression and movement—hunting enough to accumulate points while avoiding unnecessary risk. But that wasn't what made Varun's expression shift. There was something else.

Varun's tone dropped slightly. "I will place some handicaps on you."

Orion waited.

Orion's head tilted slightly. "Handicaps?" His voice was calm but the tension in his brows betraying his irritation.

Varun folded his arms, watching him with that unreadable expression—half amusement, half something else. "You heard me," he said. "You'll fight with a sword, and only with your left hand."

Orion exhaled through his nose. "You're serious."

Varun's smirk widened. "Dead serious."

"That's barely a handicap," Orion said, rolling his left shoulder, testing the stiffness in the joint. "So you want me not to go all out?"

Varun laughed, a sharp, short sound. "You've spent your last six month training for this, but standing too much is not good." He tapped his temple.

Orion said nothing. He hated that Varun was right.

Orion sighed, rolling his wrist, already feeling the mental shift he'd have to make. "Doubt it would make much difference though."

The journey to Vilcadros Academy after he parted ways with Varun, had been long—three weeks drifting through deep space aboard a military transport. The ship itself was a behemoth, designed to carry thousands of candidates across the void. Within its steel walls, time blurred into a cycle of training drills, combat simulations, and endless briefings.

Most recruits spent the time in restless anticipation, their minds filled with the looming reality of the trials ahead. The war world was not a place of mercy. Once they landed, half of them would be gone before the first day ended.

The atmosphere aboard the transport had shifted as the days passed. In the first week, there had been an air of competition—cadets testing each other in sparring matches, boasting about past training, trying to establish dominance before the real battle began. But by the second week, that bravado had faded. The weight of what was coming settled in.

By the final stretch of the journey, silence became the norm.

Conversations dwindled. The once-crowded simulation halls emptied. The endless hum of the ship's engines was accompanied only by the quiet rustling of recruits making their final preparations. Some were reviewing tactics, memorizing maps of Vilcadros Prime's war-torn terrain. Others simply stared at the metal walls, lost in thought.

Orion had spent the weeks as he always did—training in solitude. He cycled through combat drills, pushing his body, reinforcing every lesson burned into him. Yet, despite his focus, he had never been able to shake the boredom he was feeling.

As the final hours of their voyage approached, the quiet turned suffocating. No more simulations. No more drills. Nothing left to do but wait.

The shuttle's cabin was eerily silent.

Recruits sat strapped into their harnesses, their faces unreadable. Thousands of them. Some whispered to themselves, going over last-minute strategies. Others simply stared ahead, resigned to their fate.

Orion exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the bracelet on his wrist. The Academy's system was linked to it, tracking everything—kills, movement, eliminations, survival time. Every action would be recorded.

Through the viewport, Vilcadros Prime loomed.

It was like looking at a battlefield frozen in time—cracked landscapes, storm-ridden skies, and scars of past conflicts burned into the planet's surface. This was not a place for the weak. It was a crucible, designed to break them.

The intercom crackled.

[ Stand by for orbital drop.]

The countdown appeared on Orion's HUD.

Ten seconds.

A deep breath.

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The impact of the drop sent a shockwave through Orion's body. He hit the ground in a controlled roll, dust and debris kicking up around him. Around him, hundreds of candidates landed in staggered waves. Some moved instantly. Others hesitated.

His bracelet activated, displaying the mission parameters.

[ Phase One Initiated.] 

[ Objective: Reach the Designated Zone.] 

[ Eliminations increase point accumulation. 50% of cadets will proceed. ]

The battlefield erupted into chaos.

Some ran without hesitation, sprinting toward the objective. Others hesitated, scanning their surroundings for threats. Then the first fights broke out.

The Academy had structured the selection, forcing every recruit into a controlled environment. No firearms. Only melee weapons.

Orion moved swiftly, assessing the battlefield. His mind processed every available option.

Fight. Take down opponents early and increase his point accumulation.

Run. Escape the initial chaos and avoid unnecessary engagements.

From the pre-selected arsenal, he chose sword.

Still, he flexed his left hand, adjusting to the handicap Varun had placed on him. It was a restriction that would force him to refine his technique.

The first casualties fell within minutes.

Those who hesitated too long were cut down by more decisive opponents. The battlefield was ruthless—hesitation was death.

Drones swooped in, lifting eliminated cadets off the field. They wouldn't die, but injuries? Those stayed. The Academy had no interest in coddling them. If you were weak, you would leave with the scars to prove it.

Then the warbeasts were released.

Thunderous roars echoed across the battlefield as containment pods cracked open. Monstrous creatures spilled into the field.

They were meant to stall. Their purpose was to scatter cadets, force desperate choices.

Orion didn't waste time watching.

A plated warbeast crashed into a group ahead of him. Its massive frame barreled through them, sending bodies flying. A few cadets tried to fight back. A mistake.

He moved with precision, avoiding unnecessary conflicts. Engaging the wrong battle would only slow him down.

The objective was still ahead.

Time ticked away. The battlefield was shrinking.

Those who had survived the first clashes were now forced into direct confrontation. There was no longer any space to run.